Establishing Relations
by Captain Peregrine
Summary: Britain and America discuss what happened between them. With interesting results.


It seemed like years since he had last seen the younger man, and perhaps it was. He couldn't quite remember. The time seemed to have blended together. War with one country, peace with another; war and strained peace again. It all melted together like chalk in the rain. It seemed like years. Perhaps it had been. But for him it had been yesterday. It would always seem like yesterday. Too recent—too near.

And yet, somehow, it failed to surprise him when America walked through his door.

He didn't see him immediately. Slumped in his chair, facing the dying firelight crouching in his hearth with a half-empty glass of brandy in his hand, Britain was in the same position he found himself most nights. It seemed he ended nearly every evening this way now—had since that dreadful night. He could still hear the echoes of that most final argument drifting about in his not-nearly-hazy-enough brain.

_All I want is my freedom!_

_I won't allow it!_

_You used to be so Great…_

"Britain."

He heard that voice almost every night. It haunted him. It teased him. It killed him.

He didn't need to see him enter to know he was in the room. Though part of his brain hoped that perhaps this was just another drunken dream come to torment him for his folly, Britain knew the truth the moment the younger country set foot across his threshold. He had known for some time—a country could not cross another's borders without them knowing about it. Still… Britain had hoped that perhaps age had finally caught up with him and he was delusional. He had hoped. Had feared…. He wasn't sure anymore. Not really.

"What do you want, America?" For a moment he almost felt proud of himself. He didn't sound harsh or cold or bitter. He merely sounded… flat. Emotionless. Tired. And he was… he truly, truly was. He had been great… but it had taken so much. And in the end where had it left him…?

"I need to talk to you." America sounded so much the same as he had that final day. Strong. Confident. Proud. He always seemed to speak with the slightest tremble in his voice—perhaps from excitement or nervousness. Perhaps simply with the pent-up energy of youth that he never seemed to be rid of.

"I believe we have spoken enough words to one another." Britain told him, keeping his voice as flat and steady as he could manage. No anger. No hate. They would only overwhelm him and leave him standing on the edge of what he truly felt: betrayed. Frightened. Despairing and alone. "I do not think much more need be said."

"And I think you're wrong."

That voice had not been one of an unruly child demanding his personal space. That had been the voice Britain had wanted to hear. When America had first declared his independence, that was what Britain had heard—or believed he had heard. But he could no longer fool himself. This America… this America spoke to him as an equal. His voice, steady and sure, requested respect.

And part of Britain was willing to give it. Part of Britain was almost willing to admit that he was—grudgingly—proud of the young nation. Proud what he had done. Proud that he hadn't been afraid.

Another part—the greater part, perhaps—hated America. Despised him for being stubborn and cruel and childish. Hated him for thinking he had rights beyond what Britain had allowed. Hated him for tossing aside everything Britain had given him, everything he had done for him.

Hated him for leaving. America may not have been the most splendid of his colonies—lovely dusky-featured India was always his shining jewel—but he had still been special. Britain was never sure why he had treated America differently from the others. He had left the younger colony more or less to himself… and that had been his undoing, of course. He could admit it—even if he hated to do so. America had spent too long fending for himself and that had made him strong. And that was why he had broken away. Britain had tried too late to pull him close, and a grown bird would never give up his wings. Britain knew this. He had tried anyway and it had cost him everything.

It was his fault. And he hated America all the more for it.

"Say what you will then." Britain kept his voice as neutral as possible, but he could hear the harshness leaking into it. It always happened like this, the few times they had been forced into conversation with one another. They would start politely enough, but Britain would always shout. It was either that or cry and he had already sworn he would never cry before his former charge again. Damn America every time, too, for making that promise harder and harder to keep.

"I'm not sorry." America's voice was steady as he blithely spoke words that thrust themselves like shards of glass into Britain's chest. Try as he might, he could feel the fury beginning to surface. It surged inside him like a wave searching for a shore to crash upon. "And I never will be. I am glad I did what I did."

"Do you speak to everyone like this?" Britain asked, keeping his voice as calm as possible. He threw back the rest of his brandy. The ice had melted long ago, so it was a silent drink he finished, without even the pleasant tinkling of ice cubes against the tumbler. "Like a petulant child showing off his new toy?"

"You need to listen to me, Britain." America's voice became demanding and Britain's rage could no longer be kept silent. "I am not sorry and you need to understand why."

"I need to understand _what_?" Britain snapped, surging to his feet and flinging his empty glass into the fire with the same motion. The flames leapt eagerly, licking up the last remnants of brandy still beading the shattered crystal. He turned to face the boy he had once been foolish enough to name brother.

"What is there to understand, _America_?" he spat the name like a curse. "What is there to understand other than you are a selfish, cruel child who cares nothing for anyone but himself? What is there to understand beyond the fact that you were my _brother_? That I raised you and _cared for you_ and still you… you…"

Britain shook with rage. He balled his fists, longing to crack his knuckles against America's flawlessly tanned jaw. To hell with getting blood on his favorite green suit. He simply wanted to see America feel the same pain that Britain felt every day since that night.

"I called you brother!" he shouted and a part of his mind realized that the tears were dangerously close now. "But you are no longer."

"_And I thank God I'm not!_"

America's words, spoken with the horrid ring that only truth could manage, hit Britain like a slap across the face. The smaller, older nation froze—every part of him seemed suspended in time. Britain's rage vanished, replaced by the cruelty of America's words. Instead of anger, there was sorrow. No more hatred… only loss. He had feared hearing those words for so long. Hearing them now… Britain was certain he was going to be sick. He could feel the bile rising, could feel the blood draining from his face.

A small part of his brain tried to remind him that fainting dead away in front of America would be bloody humiliating. Another part broke down and cried.

America had the gall to look dismayed—as if the words had come unbidden—and then he looked frustrated.

"Fuck." He growled. "That wasn't how I wanted to say it."

"Then how did you mean to say it?" Britain demanded and recoiled in horror when he heard himself sob the words. Damn America for forcing the tears. Damn him, damn him, _damn him_.

"Oh, shit, Britain…" America took a step forward, but Britain stumbled back. He flung out a hand and America stopped.

"Get out." Britain whispered through the tears rolling down his face, indifferent to his shame.

"Bri—"

"Get out." He gestured at the door, dropping his eyes to the ground. He couldn't look America in the face. He didn't want to see what he had let get away from him. He didn't want to see what America was trying to tell him.

"I—"

"_Get out_!" Britain screamed and grabbed something to throw. A book was appropriately heavy if not as pointy as he would have liked, given the situation. He chucked it at America while he sobbed. "_Getoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetou_—"

America ducked the projectile with upsetting ease.

"Dammit, Arthur, will you fucking _listen_ to me?" he shouted, dodging another book flying at his face like a frightened bird with too many wings.

Britain froze, his arm raised and his third book poised for release. He couldn't remember the last time America had called him by that name. The book tumbled to the ground, released from numb fingers.

"How dare you…" Britain's voice shook with more emotion than he had thought he still possessed. "How _dare_ you—"

"I couldn't be your brother anymore, Britain." America didn't quite shout, but the larger country didn't need to. His very presence demanded that one pay attention to him. The words tumbled out of him as if he was pushing them out, forcing them as fast as he could. "I couldn't. I had to be your equal. It was the only way!"

"The only way for _what_?" Britain tried to shout, but it only came out as a shaky whisper. His voice was harsh from crying. America suddenly seemed incapable of speech and that, for some reason, made Britain angry again. He flung himself at America and shoved with every ounce of strength his wiry little frame possessed. To his further humiliation, America only stumbled back a step.

"For what? For what, for what, for _what_?" He shouted now, though he knew he only sounded like a child having a tantrum. The tears flowing fresh down his face didn't help the image much, either. He continued to shove at America, forcing him back inch by inch as he shoved his open hands against his shoulders. "Why, Alfred? Why did you _leave me_?"

Britain froze and he felt America go still beneath him. He barely seemed to breathe.

Bloody hell. He hadn't meant to say that. Britain looked up at America and the younger nation stared back, his blue eyes wide in his stupidly-tanned face. Britain gasped for breath, the noise sounding like another sob, and he moved to take a step back, as if to escape the words that had fallen unbidden from his mouth.

"Fuck it." Alfred growled like a feral animal and reached forward. He grabbed the lapels of Britain's suit and yanked him forward, throwing off his balance completely, and crushed his lips against Arthur's. Britain's muffled exclamation of surprise was swallowed by that searing and utterly unexpected kiss.

They couldn't keep it up long. Anger and surprise had left them both breathless and the demand for air overwhelmed them in the end. But it left Arthur feeling hot and unbalanced—more than physically, though he was leaning drunkenly against Alfred's broader frame. He took in a shuddering breath and risked looking up at America, too shocked to really know what to except. However, the lust and longing and desperate _arousal_ that stared back at him from those blue eyes certainly wasn't it.

"I couldn't be your brother, Arthur." Alfred said quietly, breathlessly. "Not any more. I… I've wanted you for… I've wanted to do _that_… God, I don't even _know_. But I knew I would do anything to get you to see me as someone other than your little brother. I was willing to fight for you… even if it meant fighting you."

"You are a bloody fool. All you had to do was say so. I've wanted you, too. Why didn't you try this sooner? I think I love you…"

Those and plenty of other responses would have been entirely appropriate for the situation, or so Arthur reasoned. More appropriate, anyway, than the breathless "oh" that escaped his lips instead.

To his surprise, Alfred smiled. It was a slow, creeping smile that curled its way cat-like across America's features. Britain stared at him in amazement and then frowned, trying to recover his composure. His hands, braced against Alfred's shoulders for balance, shoved back in order to give him a moment to recover some amount of dignity.

"What are you grinning at, you bloody fool? You look like the goddamned Cheshire cat—_oomph_!"

Britain suddenly found himself with his back pressed against the closed study door and America's firm, warm bulk pressing against his chest. Arthur was firmly pinned, but his hands were free. He could have shoved the younger, larger country away, but they both knew very well that he wasn't going to do that. Instead he rested his hands as lightly as he could against Alfred's narrow waist, curling his fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

"I've always wanted to do that." Alfred's smile broadened and he pressed a light, chaste kiss to Britain's forehead. But then that obnoxiously attractive smile faded and he rested his own forehead there, gazing into eyes that he had never seen so close before. Not since he had been very young, anyway, and certainly never in this context…

"Do you know how hard it was?" America whispered, all seriousness again. He closed his eyes, not quite willing to see the emotions rising in Britain's eyes while he bared himself so close to him. "Watching you, knowing you were so close all that time and knowing I could never be with you so long as I was yours? It was all so fucked up and it was killing me. I had… But it hurt even more when I saw what I had done to you. I was afraid I had—had turned you against me forever. Or, worse… that I had broken you. That it was my fault that you…"

America opened his eyes. He still couldn't look him in the eye, however, and watched instead as he brushed his own thumb across Britain's cheek, wiping away the drying tears still staining the smaller man's face. He wanted so badly to take back every tear Arthur may have shed because of him. He would cry an ocean if he thought it could take back all the pain he must have caused the man he loved…

"You were right, Arthur." America forced himself to look at Britain and he trembled to do it. He had come here tonight with the express purpose of telling Arthur, finally, how he felt and why he had done what he had done, but… fuck, it was so fucking difficult. He was America, _damn it_. He had been raised by one of the most bad-ass empires on the _planet_. Why was shit like this always so fucking _hard_? "I was selfish and cruel and… fuck, I just wanted you so _badly_ I didn't even realize what I was _doing_. Not until it was too late to take it all back—"

America's words were swallowed by Arthur's mouth pressed against his lips. A part of his mind cringed when he heard himself whine into that soft, firm mouth but the rest of him didn't give a shit how needy he sounded right now. He merely reacted as he felt Britain's fingers, no longer on his waist, twist into his hair. He pressed closer to the island's smaller body, opening his mouth and breathing in the taste of Britain as his tongue explored the hot dampness of America's mouth.

The kiss was broken only by the shared need to breath and for a few moments the only sound was their quiet gasping. For several heartbeats neither of them moved, both so stunned by the other. And then, almost shyly, Arthur smiled.

"You stupid git." Britain murmured fondly, brushing his fingers through America's hair. "What took you so goddamned long?"

America swallowed thickly, his brain still a bit addled by the unexpected (though entirely pleasant) lack of oxygen he had just experienced.

"I'm here now." He said quietly. He said it as a statement, but it sounded like a question to both of them. Britain was very still for a moment. Then he smiled.

"You most certainly are." He hummed. He leaned forward, brushing his lips gently across America's. One hand stayed in the taller nation's hair, but the other moved to a more southern location.

"Ohh…" America moaned as Britain palmed his half-hard cock through his trousers. His hips rolled forward of their own accord and the kiss they shared deepened, becoming more desperate as America rocked against Arthur's hand. Britain felt himself becoming hard as Alfred moaned into his mouth, clutched at his hips to pull him closer and all the while bucking against his hand with a greater intensity. One of America's legs wriggled between Arthur's, pressing himself against the growing bulge in Britain's pants. Arthur moaned against Alfred's mouth. Fuck, if America kept this up they weren't going to get far…

Britain bit Alfred's lip in an attempt to stop him. The taller country pulled back, looking surprised and confused. Any words of complaint, however, were stilled by the dark arousal looking up at him from those huge, emerald green eyes.

America allowed himself to be pushed back. Arthur took his hand and tugged at him gently, urging him silently to follow.

The two of them stumbled their way to the bed. It took longer than they would have liked for as soon as they crossed the threshold they were struggling to remove every stitch of each other's clothing. Of course, by the time Britain's knees bumped the edge of the mattress all they had managed was to kick off their shoes, loosen Arthur's tie and rid America of his jacket. Given silent permission to continue as he would, America decided he wanted to see Arthur naked.

Now.

America gave a gentle shove against Arthur's chest. The man, already as close to the bed as he could get, stumbled backwards and landed, sitting, on the mattress with a small, surprised exclamation. Before he could comment, Alfred was between his legs and pushing the green suit jacket off Arthur's shoulders and flinging it aside. He bent down to devour Britain's mouth with his own while he made short work of the tie and the shirt—he had to admit that he was proud of himself for not popping a single button off in his haste to get it the _fuck off_.

Arthur's fingers were busy with America's own shirt and in record time both of them were down to their trousers and socks.

America was almost painfully hard by now, but he didn't really care at the moment. All he knew was that he wanted Arthur's pants off and his cock in his mouth as fast as was physically able. He had fantasized about this happening for months—for _years_—leading up to his splitting from the older country. Now that it was finally reality he could hardly contain himself.

He pulled Britain's trousers and boxers off in one swift tug, leaving the smaller country gloriously bare but for his socks—which later he would find amusing, but right now he was seriously distracted.

Britain was lying back on the mattress, braced on his elbows, with his legs dangling over the edge. Naked and very obviously aroused, he watched America with lust-darkened eyes. His lips were red and a bit swollen from their earlier kisses and his hair as disheveled as America imagined his own was.

Alfred was practically drooling. He knelt in front of Britain, a bit nervous but eager to hear the sounds that echoed in his dreams almost nightly. He drank in the sight of Arthur's flushed, weeping cock standing erect in front of his face, just begging to be sucked…

So America did. He gave the tip a cursory lick—smiling when he heard Arthur's sharp intake of breath—before he sucked as much of it as he could manage into his mouth.

"Oh, fuck, Alfred!" Britain moaned loudly as his cock was engulfed by the deliciously wet warmth of America's mouth. His head rolled back and he didn't bother to restrain his moans and groans and wanton gasps as America sucked at his penis. He swirled his tongue around the head, pressing a bit into the tip before sucking him in deeper. Arthur's moans became positively sinful when he felt the tip of his penis brush the back of America's throat, teeth scraping the shaft, and it was all he could do to keep himself from thrusting as deeply into that moist heat as he could. Instead he gripped the sheets and let America hear him, moaning meaningless sentences while his brain fizzled out from pure, overwhelming ecstasy.

"Alfred… oh, God, Alfred. Fuck yes… Fuck… oh, fuck, I'm going—"

Alfred felt slender fingers curl into his hair, clenching his ash-blonde locks while the slighter man beneath him gasped. He worked his teeth and lips and tongue around Britain's hard cock faster, ignoring the embarrassingly hungry slurping noises he made in an attempt to go faster and deeper. He felt Britain's fingers tighten, heard the deep, long groan that shot straight through to America's groin, before Arthur arched into Alfred's mouth.

Britain came hard, shouting Alfred's name. Alfred continued to suck at him while he spent himself inside America's mouth. The younger man swallowed what he was given before he released Britain's cock. Arthur managed to raise himself on shaky elbows, staring at America with wide eyes. His pupils were so wide with desire and lust that the green was almost conquered by the black.

Most countries, Britain knew from experience, were naturally good at what they did. History was, putting it crudely, more or less a series of stories relating how one country fucked another. He had fucked his fair share of older—and younger—nations. France knew this well. The older country was certainly good at invading, but Britain _conquered_ and so far had never been conquered himself… well, except for one of those Scandinavian countries so many centuries back—he could never remember which one… Norway or Sweden, probably. Before that Ancient Rome had almost been successful, but Britain had barely been a country then. Younger even than America when he had first been discovered and it had not been conquest so much as long-term invasion… which, in the end, had not gone well for Ancient Rome.

Britain had just never suspected that America, young as he was, would be quite as _good_ as he was. Perhaps he took after Arthur more than he imagined… Arthur couldn't help but wonder how good America really was. It frightened him a bit how desperately he wanted to know.

Britain tugged gently at Alfred's hair, urging him up. The younger nation eagerly clambered up the length of Arthur's bed, following him to the pillows piled luxuriously against the headboard. He pressed his lips to his and Arthur could taste himself on Alfred's tongue, mixed with a flavor that was distinctly America's—the rich taste of coffee and chocolate, the faint aroma of smoke and bacon, and a hint of tobacco. Bloody hell, it was intoxicating.

Britain enjoyed the feeling of America exploring his skin with his mouth for a while. Teeth grazed his throat. His tongue lapped at the outer shell of his ear. Lips sucked and kissed at the pale flesh of his chest and the pink of his erect nipples. He began to move lower to the already-stirring southern regions, but Britain tugged at his hair again to get his attention. Alfred looked up at him, eyes dark with confusion and arousal.

"Pants. Off." Britain panted. He didn't care if America realized how badly he had wanted this. How it tore him up inside, the massive yearning he had suppressed for so long he couldn't even remember. "I need you, Alfred."

Alfred froze for a moment as the words sank into his lust-hazed brain. Then he moved so fast to kick off his pants and boxers that Britain had to bite back a laugh. The poor country looked ridiculous hopping about trying to shuck his trousers, but neither of them cared at the moment. It wasn't long before Alfred was naked and hovering over Britain again, very obviously aroused.

"How do you want to do this?" he asked. His voice was husky and Britain realized with a shock that in this moment he couldn't remember ever wanting this so badly in his life. Britain was never one to lie back and take it—he fought with tooth and nail and nearly always ended up on top—but now… now he wanted so desperately for America to be _in_ him that it was almost painful. He had never been willing to give himself so freely before and though the thought frightened him, it was exhilarating, too.

Britain pushed himself up so his nose brushed against Alfred's.

"Fuck me, Alfred." He whispered. Just saying it out loud sent a warm tingle down Britain's spine that pooled in his groin.

America's breath shuddered as he took a deep gulp of air.

"You're sure?" Britain was surprised he could even hear Alfred over the rush of blood in his ears. Britain nodded. As an added invitation he parted his lips and smiled against Alfred when the younger country pressed his mouth against his, tasting him again with that surprisingly dexterous tongue of his. Of course he would know how to use it, Britain thought wryly. He talked so much it got enough exercise…

Britain wasn't quite sure where the lube came from. Maybe America had it. Maybe he had fumbled it out of the drawer beside the bed without realizing it. He didn't care. All he knew was that suddenly America had a finger poised at his entrance, warm and wetly dripping with the stuff. For a moment the digit simply hovered there, as if America was afraid to press forward. Britain made a point of spreading his legs wider and stretched his hand across America's broad back. The other remained tangled in America's hair.

"Do it, Alfred. Prepare me."

America couldn't contain his aroused groan as he slowly pushed his finger inside. Britain had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. It hurt more than he had expected. Shit, he could barely remember his first time anymore. Anyone else and he would have begged them to stop, give him a moment to adjust, maybe go a little slower. But this was America… He wanted him so badly he couldn't wrap his brain around it.

And yet America seemed to understand. He kept still inside of him to allow him to adjust, but did not pull out. When he was sure that Arthur was passed the worst of the shock of having a foreign object inside of him, he added a second finger. He winced when he heard Britain's sharp intake of breath. He pressed a kiss to his thighs, murmuring softly against his smooth skin. The pain didn't fade, but Britain allowed himself to be distracted by that amazing mouth. He somehow managed to spread himself a bit wider beneath him, giving America better access. When Britain didn't protest, America added a third finger and began to stretch the little nation a bit more. At the same time he searched for that spot he knew wasn't far…

"Oh, God, Alfred." Britain gasped. He threw his head back against the pillows and arched against America. Fingers dug into his shoulder and tightened almost painfully in his hair. America couldn't help but grin.

Found it.

Alfred finger-fucked him a bit more to prepare him, but he knew neither of them would last much longer if he continued on like that. He pulled his fingers from Britain and prepared to penetrate him when he paused, hovering above him. Britain, already looked wonderfully debauched and familiarly testy, frowned up at him.

"What's wrong?" he asked. The irritation was tempered by arousal and America decided he liked that tone. He'd have to work to hear it again. But later. Now…

"I want you to ride me." America told Britain, not even blinking at the bluntness of his own words. "Will you—"

"Bloody fucking hell, _yes_." Britain all but panted. America grinned and rolled onto his back, pulling Britain onto his lap as he did so. He nearly came just from Arthur rubbing the lube onto his hard cock and only visions of France kept him from cuming before he could even bury himself into his former warden.

Arthur shifted and positioned himself over Alfred's dick. He looked down at America as he lowered himself and Alfred had a perfect view of his face as he penetrated himself with America's penis. Once again, America nearly came at the sight and it took a significant amount of willpower not to simply thrust into that almost-too-tight heat of Arthur's magnificent ass.

Arthur went slowly. He had to. He was too tight to simply impale himself, but when America was finally buried up to the hilt inside him, it felt perfect. Alfred kept still as Britain adjusted to having America's—admittedly impressively sized—penis thrust so deeply inside of him. Before he could lose his nerve, however, Britain raised himself nearly all the way and then plummeted back down.

Alfred and Arthur cried out in unison.

"Oh, fuck, Arthur." Alfred gasped as Arthur began to ride him, rolling his hips and impaling himself again and again on America's wonderfully hard cock. It was still a bit painful, yes, but it felt so good Arthur couldn't imagine stopping now… "Fuck, Arthur. God-fucking-damn it."

America's fingers dug into Arthur's hips while he rocked up to meet Britain's downward thrust. It wasn't long before they had a steady rhythm and their attempts at speech degraded into animalistic grunts and moans. Each of them was driving the other crazy—Arthur by the sight of America beneath him, huffing and moaning and looking feverish with exertion and lust; Alfred by Arthur rocking above him, mouth hanging open and blond hair clinging to his damp forehead. Arthur was sure he was going to cum again, but then he felt America's fingers digging into his hips—hard enough he was sure he'd have bruises.

"Don—don't cum, Arthur." Alfred gasped.

"Bloody hell, wh—why not?" Arthur moaned. He felt he was so close. He couldn't imagine how he _couldn't_.

"Oh, God, I want you to cum inside me." Alfred sighed, never slowing down his powerful thrusts and managing to hit that spot... "I want you inside me, Arthur."

Frankly, Britain nearly came then and there. If that wasn't the hottest thing he had ever heard, he would take France up on his most recent offer of marriage.

"Oh, Alfred." Britain groaned. "I want… God, yes. But then you need to… Oh, fuck. You need to hurry."

_And you need to stop fucking talking like _that.

Alfred growled and the sound was not helping Britain to contain himself at _all_. Neither was the way Alfred wrapped his powerful arms around Britain's waist, holding him while he thrust up. He leaned forward to better his angle and Arthur groaned when the larger country bit down on his shoulder. Fucking God-damned _hell_, America was making it _impossible_ for Arthur to do as he was asked. Britain wasn't so much riding America now as he was simply trying to hang on while America bucked and surged beneath him like the ships he used to call his home…

"Oh, God, Arthur!" Alfred cried, his thrusts becoming erratic. With a final, wild cry he penetrated deep and hard and Arthur felt him release inside, filling him. He bit back his own cry. God, he wasn't going to make it…

He felt America pull out of him. Arthur gasped at the sudden emptiness, but he didn't have long to mourn it. America's hand was suddenly around his penis, slathering him with a mixture of lube and his own semen leaking out of Britain's ass. Fucking hot as that was…

"Hell, Alfred, don't you want me to—"

"I can't wait, Arthur." America's moan was positively _immoral_. "I've waited fucking long enough. Please."

It wasn't like America to beg for anything and Britain certainly wasn't going to deny him long. Still…

"America, you've never done this before. I don't want to hurt you—"

"I've been prepared for you longer than I care to admit, Arthur." America told him and had the graciousness to look embarrassed by the confession. "_Please_."

It didn't really take much more pleading than that. Britain positioned himself and when he would have hesitated, or gone slowly, America threw one leg over Britain's shoulder and wrapped the other around his narrow waist. He tightened his grip and pressed Arthur into him, arching up to meet him. He was almost painfully tight, but Arthur slid home with surprising ease. America hadn't been joking… And that thought turned him on almost more than anything else.

Knowing he wasn't going to last long, Britain adjusted his angle and thrust forward and up. America screaming Britain's name was enough of a hint to know that he had hit the spot. Arthur began to thrust fast and hard into the larger nation. America's leg was tight around his waist and his hands clawed at his back. His head was thrown back, exposing his throat, and Britain went for it. America moaned beneath him while he sucked and nipped at the smooth flesh there, all the while pumping into him with all the speed and force he could muster. He dug his fingers into America's tight thigh while his other wrapped itself around America's half-hard cock and pumped it back to full arousal.

Both of them were far too wound up for it to last long. It lasted long enough for America to get hard again, but when he came, splashing hot semen between their heaving chests, it was more than enough to tip Britain over the edge.

"America! Oh, God, _Alfred_." Arthur screamed as he came, thrusting through his orgasm until he had nothing left. Then, utterly spent, he collapsed on top of America who lay sprawled lazily below him and seemed hardly to notice his extra weight at all.

Wanker.

Arthur felt Alfred's arm heavy across his back. The other traced lines aimlessly up and down Britain's spine. His legs were tangled limply with Arthur's. Britain smiled against the smooth curve of America's shoulder when he felt Alfred press a kiss to his ear.

"I love you…" Alfred murmured against his ear. Immediately he went so still beneath Arthur that he wasn't even sure he could feel him breathing. Arthur raised his head slightly and looked at America's face. The younger man looked horrified by what he had just said and when he looked at Britain, he looked like he was ready to run like a frightened rabbit. He shook his head, his blue eyes wide in his handsome face.

"I'm sorry." America whispered. "I didn't mean—"

"Oh, shut up, git." Britain chuckled, snuggling against America's shoulder. He felt America slowly loosen up beneath him. Then he could almost feel the younger nation grinning.

"Does this mean we've established diplomatic relations?" America asked, his voice filled with that trembling excitement again. Britain laughed softly and looked up at Alfred again.

"Do you ever shut up?" he asked. America snorted.

"When I've got so many amazing things to say? Not fucking hardly."

Britain tweaked a nipple and America yipped, jumping beneath him.

"I thought I taught you to speak proper bloody English, love." He scolded fondly.

America just grinned and smacked Britain's ass.

"We need to get cleaned up, you sodding jackass." Britain chuckled, pushing into a sitting position even though it meant removing himself from the warmth of Alfred's strong embrace.

"Shower?" America asked, sounding like an excited Labrador.

"Shower." Britain agreed.

"Race you." America shouted and leapt out of bed, nearly shoving Arthur off the edge of the mattress in the process.

"Wanker!" Britain laughed and ran after him. It surprised him that he could laugh. It seemed so long since he had last done that. And yet, when he thought of it, it truly had been only America that could make him laugh—really, really laugh. And it took until now—it took all the fights, the broken hearts, the tears and the painful good-bye—to see that America had been his equal all along. Britain couldn't remember ever feeling like another country was ever on equal footing with him… And leave it to the damned arrogant bastard to be the one to point it out. Damned arrogant bastard who was now probably naked and soaking wet in the shower right now…

Diplomatic relations, indeed. Britain grinned to himself as he hurried after his ally.


End file.
